Stay
by Red River
Summary: After all this time among humans, Castiel knew when he was being manipulated. But that didn't matter when he couldn't afford to gamble with the thing in jeopardy. Castiel does the Winchesters a favor for the sake of a case, and for Sam. Sam and Cas centric, friendship or pre-slash. Written for the Blind Sassy Exchange.


A/N: Written for the Blind Sassy Exchange on Sastiel Week on Tumblr. The original prompt was: "Cas is sick and Sam gets left to take care of him." Of course, then I was stuck trying to figure out how an angel would get sick... fortunately, a friend more clever than I is always on hand to dream up answers to questions like this. Thanks to her for the premise.

Pairings: Sam and Castiel centric, friendship or light/pre-slash

Warnings: Dean doesn't come off so well in this story. Dean strikes me as a character with a lot of anger, and one who can't relate/empathize/get frantic over anything Sam's going through aside from actual physical harm; every time Sam's life is in danger, he snaps into desperate action, but anything else Sam might be wrestling with, he has to face alone. This holds for the rest of the characters Dean interacts with as well.

The situation in this story struck me as one where Dean's best colors wouldn't show. I've tried to keep him in-character and not make him an over-the-top villain, but just to be clear: this is not a story about what a great friend and big brother Dean is. You've been warned.

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**Stay**

Sam hadn't been seriously ill in years, but he remembered it from his childhood vividly. He remembered the vile chemical taste at the back of his throat and then the hours and hours of throwing up in the emergency room that accompanied it when his father needed something from the hospital. Sickness to Sam would always be a drop of Ipecac on the back of his tongue. It was a haze after that—Dean would carry him in, wearing disheveled pajamas to play it up, and since he was a child doctors and nurses would rush over. They were never watching the concerned older brother very carefully, busy trying to track down a guardian so they could treat Sam, and that gave Dean ample opportunity to get hold of the supplies they needed. After all, no one suspected a sick kid and his brother were going to steal narcotics. Although to be fair, it wasn't narcotics they needed—mostly strong antibiotics not available over the counter; Lidocaine, suture kits, sometimes pain pills. Sam was never really sure. One minute a nurse would be rubbing his head after he vomited and the next minute Dean would be giving him Paracetamol to counteract some of the symptoms and they would be leaving.

By the time Sam was an adult they had come up with different ruses, different sources, and Sam hadn't thought about it years. Now, as Dean stared at him, Sam was acutely aware of the bottle of Ipecac buried at the bottom of the first aid kit. But this was no simple trip to the ER, and Sam wasn't sure if he could handle being sick for as long as it could take, physically or mentally.

They had stumbled on a case—a couple of sick people that went missing whose bodies were found all the way across the country. It wasn't necessarily their kind of case except for one detail: all of the people had been dying of debilitating and fatal diseases before they went missing, with a life expectancy of less than a year, and then stayed alive somehow for _five more years_ while they were missing before being murdered. They hadn't been cured; the diseases were still present in their system. They just hadn't died like they were supposed to.

Bobby had scrounged up some information for them. Other hunters had brushed up against this same circumstance a couple of times, and he stressed that the information was more of a longshot at this point, but it looked like the work of a very ancient demon called "The Eater," which fed on the suffering of the sick, prolonging their lives in order to prolong their agony. Sam's own research had turned up a number of cults beginning in ancient times that all described their leader as a healer of enormous power "able to stave off the hand of death."

There was only one problem: all the stories ended the same way. Every time this guy was found out by anyone, his entire congregation—the sick, the healthy, the children—would commit mass suicide.

The only way in was to infiltrate, the only way to infiltrate was to be sick. Sam felt his mouth going dry. It could take days to catch the attention of anyone in the cult, and anything that kept Sam sick that long wouldn't be without its side effects. He would be useless as backup for Dean when the time came. He had been trying to talk the problem out with Dean, but so far, they weren't getting anywhere.

"I'm just saying it could be dangerous," Sam told his brother, keeping his voice even because he wasn't trying to make this an argument. Dean was already agitated, though, so he was basically arguing anyway.

"Yeah, I get that, Sam," Dean replied. "But I weighed you having some lingering stomachaches against the sick-and-twisted factor of kidnapping a terminally ill person and keeping them locked up until the demon finds us, and guess what won out?"

Sam rubbed a hand across his forehead to soothe his building headache. "Yeah, I get it, Dean. I'm just saying… this isn't going to be stomachaches, all right? I mean, Ipecac is one-use for a reason."

They were staying in a small motel outside of Kansas City, a tiny two-story building with chipped white paint and carpets that were green like overflowing algae—the closest they'd been to Lawrence in a long time. Maybe that was why Dean was so on edge. Maybe he knocked the lamp across the room into the far wall because the flickering incandescent bulb was just driving him crazy.

"Damn it, Sam, you think I don't know that? You think I want to do this to you? I can't pull off sick and pathetic the way you can, and we don't know anyone who's conveniently halfway in the grave already." Dean glared at the abused lamp, thankfully still intact on the floor beside the nightstand, and raked a hand through his cropped hair. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to—you know that."

Sam did know that. Just like he knew that Dean did the best he could. Sam knew that his brother just got really into it with the cases—especially the ones where the stakes were high, where they were playing against a handicap and the house had been winning far too long. It was something Dean had learned from John. But that didn't stop the memory of the taste of Ipecac from rising to the back of his tongue, and he almost gagged on the spot, fighting down the reflex by rubbing at his throat. Dean watched him like a hawk, his head flopping to one side as he swung his open arms out to the room.

"Sammy, if there was anyone else…"

Then Dean stopped talking, his jaw almost snapping shut with the force of the thought Sam could actually see crossing his face—and before even explaining to his younger brother, Dean whirled around and addressed the ceiling, the muscles of his face taut with impatience.

"Hey, Cas! Fate-of-the-world stuff going on down here, right up your alley, so if you've got a minute… Cas. What, are you deaf? Cas!"

Castiel only gave them a few seconds to wonder. He appeared before Dean with a rustle of feathers, as though he had been waiting for Dean to call for him. Dean muttered at him for taking so long to respond, while Cas just stood there, just waiting for Dean to ask something of him. Just waiting for Dean.

Sam knew the saying _it's never wise to fall for someone else's lover_. He wondered if it could be expanded: _It's never wise to fall for someone else's angel._

.x._  
_

Sam looked worried. That was Castiel's first impression when he appeared in the hotel room. Dean was impatient to have his say, as always, but even as he explained the Winchesters' situation Castiel's eyes stayed on Sam, studying his crossed arms, both hands tucked into his side; his unsettled lean against the corner of the motel table, his hazel eyes that darted between the angel's face and the worn green carpet. It was difficult not to notice when Sam was upset, because even when he kept a straight face his emotions came through in his posture and his short, flitting gestures. Dean's mind seemed to be on other things.

"Dude, Cas—you even listening to me?"

Sam shifted at the edge in his brother's voice, leaning his weight into the table and crossing one ankle over the other. Castiel turned his gaze to the older Winchester, blue eyes thoughtful.

"I am, Dean. Though I do not understand."

Dean's head rolled back in a gesture Castiel had come to understand was aggravation. "Christ. Don't tell me I have to explain this whole thing again."

Dean always regarded that as a personal insult, the angel had noticed—the implication that he had not been given undivided attention. Castiel's eyes narrowed at his language, but in the end he allowed it to pass, fixing Dean with a considering stare. "You do not. It was not difficult to follow the description of your circumstances. What I do not understand is why you wish me to pretend to be ill." The angel tipped his head to one side. "I feel there are other ways in which I could be more helpful."

It usually fell to Sam to explain their requests, Castiel had found—even when Dean had called him in the first place. Dean wanted him to do things for the Winchesters because he was their friend, or because he was in their debt—wanted him to trust Dean's judgment, not question it. Dean did not like to explain himself. So Castiel was not surprised that Sam spoke next, a tiny curve quirking the corners of his lips in an expression that was somehow not a smile at all.

"Yeah, no… I'm sure there would be, Cas. But the thing is, we have no idea where this guy is. And I've looked at the history on this, and… it's not pretty," Sam finished, his eyes lifting to meet Castiel's at last as he pulled on his bottom lip and worried it between his teeth. "Every time somebody even gets close to this demon, you get serious mass suicides from his followers—we're talking whole families, kids…" Sam shrugged under his worn tan jacket, as if he were pushing the thought from his mind, but his voice remained solemn. "If we screw up the approach on this, the body count is going to be… really high. The only safe thing to do is have somebody play sick until we can scare up a lead on this cult. But that's going to be at least a few days, and…"

The worry was back in Sam's tone. Castiel studied the younger Winchester as he leaned his hands back on the table, his fingers overextended to press flat palms to the scratched wood and faded coffee rings. It was easy to tell that Sam was troubled, but what was troubling him was a much more complicated question; Castiel considered the plan as it had been explained to him, searching for weaknesses.

"Are you not concerned that, if I am pretending to be ill, the demon will incite suicide again if it senses me? I would be… disconcerting," the angel tried, not certain he had found the right word.

Sam ran a tense hand through his hair. "Somebody just needs to be sick long enough for a member of the cult to approach us—just long enough for us to track them down, Cas. You don't have to fool this demon in person or anything. But yeah… there are still a few kinks to work out…" Sam's eyes cut over to his brother—but Dean wasn't looking at him, so the younger Winchester turned back to Castiel, folding his arms over his chest in a way that made him seem so much smaller than his height should have allowed. "You know what, Cas, you should just… I mean, we don't even have the plan all laid out yet, so—"

"No, screw that, Sam," Dean cut in, throwing a hand out to one side. He took a step toward Castiel until he and the angel were exchanging stares, those generally displeased green eyes boring into Castiel's blue. "Here's the bottom line, okay, Cas?" Dean said. "We're taking this guy down before he drops any more innocents. Somebody has to play sick, and it's you or Sam."

Sam pressed two fingers to his temple. "Dean—"

"So either you can suck it up and have the first few sick days of your life, symptoms to vanish the second we're done," Dean continued, "or I'll go get the Ipecac right now and Sam can start heaving into a trash can. And when he coughs up his stomach lining, that'll be on you. So what's it going to be?"

Sam had a long-suffering expression on his face. Castiel thought part of it might be resignation at how Dean asked for favors, or for the way his brother approached their job, at times as callus as the things they were hunting. But Castiel hadn't missed the shudder that slid through Sam Winchester at the mention of Ipecac, and even the reassuring smile he was giving the angel now couldn't hide the edges of a grimace. Somehow he looked so much younger with his hands gripping the motel table, the crescents of his nails digging mindlessly into the battered wood. But what twisted the sharpest in Castiel was the resignation in his eyes, as if the choice had already been made.

"Cas, it's okay," Sam told him. "We'll find another way, all right? You don't have to worry about it—"

Castiel turned back to Dean. "I will do it," he said.

Dean reached out and clapped his shoulder. "Good. Then get your game face on—the sooner we get started, the sooner it's over."

Castiel pulled away from the older Winchester's hand. After all this time among humans, and Dean in particular, the angel was no fool—Castiel knew when he was being manipulated. But he had realized by now that it didn't matter whether he recognized the manipulation as such, if he couldn't afford to gamble with whatever was in jeopardy.

Castiel glanced once more at Sam, perched motionless on the edge of the table. He thought he understood the relief and the concern passing like the shadows of clouds over the young man's face. What he didn't understand was the third shadow—somewhere between longing and disappointment, and resignation.

.x.

Being ill was miserable, Castiel had decided. It was impossible to imagine how humans lived through experiences such as this not once in their lives, but several times in any given year. The angel was weary of the experience after one day.

Castiel was most familiar with plagues, and so those were the symptoms he had given himself—chills, nausea, fatigue, abdominal pain, and a high enough fever that he was having difficulty keeping track of time. All of his memories of the last twenty-four hours were indistinct, as if glimpsed through a haze—he seemed constantly to be waking up, remembered the TV flicking through channels too rapidly to analyze its content, and once when he had woken in a panic to find Sam pulling off his trench coat and his rattled mind at first thought a demon was ripping at his wings.

Through the jumble of sweaty sheets and fever dreams, Sam was the one constant—Sam draping a cold washcloth across his forehead, Sam pressing a bottle of water to his lips, Sam dragging the heavy hotel comforter over Castiel when his internal temperature switched suddenly from overheated to chilled and shivering. Every time Castiel came back to himself, he wondered about the younger Winchester—whether he had slept at all, or eaten, or stepped out of the slightly rancid air of this motel sick room even for a few minutes. He had tried to ask several times where Dean was, if Sam were awaiting his brother's return before taking a break—had tried to tell Sam that no one needed to stay, that he would be fine on his own. But either Castiel was not expressing himself well or Sam was not listening, because every time the angel opened his eyes, Sam was hovering beside him, sometimes in the chair next to the bed, sometimes on the corner of the mattress itself, which was only all right because Castiel had given himself symptoms only, not an actual, contagious infection. He was not certain he had made that clear to Sam, though.

It took Castiel a few moments to realize that he had opened his eyes once more and was staring up at Sam's concerned half-smile.

"Hey," Sam said quietly. "How are you doing?"

Castiel glanced around to get his bearings. He was seated on edge of the mattress, though he did not remember sitting up, and his trench coat and suit were gone—he was dressed in an old, loose t-shirt of Dean's and black sweatpants, possibly Sam's that the younger hunter had explained had shrunk in the wash. The details were out of his reach. Castiel picked at the gray fabric of his shirt and then looked back up at Sam, wrinkling his nose slightly at the faint scent of perspiration he could sense clinging to himself.

"Do not worry, Sam. I am still ill," Castiel assured him.

Sam's mouth opened in a long sigh, like he had been vastly misunderstood. "I know, Cas. I meant…" The young man paused, then dismissed the rest with a wave of his hand, his fingers rising to tug absently at a long piece of hair hanging in his face. "Can I get you anything? Some water… some chicken soup?"

Castiel felt his forehead furrow at the suggestion. "I do not require nourishment," he explained evenly, not for the first time. It was a fact the Winchesters seemed constantly to be forgetting.

Sam's exhale came out like a little laugh. "It's just… sort of a cultural standard. You give a sick person chicken soup. It's supposed to be easy on the stomach and… comforting, I guess."

Castiel tilted his head up to meet Sam's gaze, though the movement made his head throb and a sickly pressure build in his stomach. "You have experienced the benefits of this chicken soup yourself?" he asked.

Sam pressed his lips together. "Not me, really, but…" He was quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering down as he put the topic away, somewhere inside himself—something Castiel had seen him do far too many times. He did not feel well enough at present to press the issue. When Sam looked up again, he offered a gentle smile. "You sure you don't want to lie down again?"

"I am not sure," Castiel admitted. His stomach roiled under the borrowed t-shirt.

"Okay," Sam replied, holding up one hand as if to pacify the angel. "I just thought it might be more comfortable. And if you need another blanket or something, I can get one—I saw the maids' cart in the hall, and they usually—"

Castiel did not like to interrupt when Sam was talking. But an issue of extreme importance suddenly burst into his consciousness, and Castiel sat forward on the bed, squaring his feet. "Would you excuse me, Sam?" he asked, sending his companion a sincerely apologetic look. Then he bent at the waist and vomited into the motel trash can next to his bed, glad that he had hit his target.

His next minutes were occupied with heaving, and Castiel lost track of himself for a little while. When he became aware of his surroundings again, Sam was pressing a glass of water into his hand, a keenly sympathetic expression on his face.

"Here, Cas. Take it easy, okay?"

Castiel drank deeply, then rinsed his mouth and spat into the trash can. Sam reached out and rubbed his shoulder with one soft hand. Castiel looked up at him, and then down at the glass of water again—tilting his neck seemed to incite the churning nausea in his stomach.

"You do not have to stay with me, Sam," Castiel said, watching ripples on the surface of the water glass.

Sam withdrew his hand. "I just… it sucks to be sick." A soft chuckle. "Trust me, I have some experience with that."

It was not the place of an angel to rid man of sickness, any more than Castiel could erase the scars on the knuckles of Sam's hand, discolored in the thin light as Sam ran one hand over the other. Sickness was part of the human condition. All the same, Castiel wished in that moment that Sam had never been sick, and would never have to be. But most of all he hoped that Sam had never been sick alone, because Sam's presence was the only thing making Castiel's situation bearable at the moment. He couldn't imagine being without him.

.x.

"He's not really sick, Sam."

Where he stood on the covered motel walkway, safe from the gray afternoon drizzle, Sam glanced over his shoulder and through the door to their room, which was open just a crack. All he could see was Castiel's back, where the angel was still sitting up on the edge of the mattress. Sam turned back to his brother with a sigh.

"Yeah, but he feels sick, Dean. Or at least, I think he feels sick."

It was hard to tell with Castiel—the angel had been up and down, and more and less lucid over the course of the last four days. Sam was having trouble getting a read on how miserable the angel really was at any one time. Dean snorted under his breath.

"You think he feels. Why don't you stop right there, Sammy. In fact, why don't you stop thinking altogether and come out with me for a few hours."

Sam rocked back on his heels. He had refused Dean's offers to tag along every time his older brother got tired of being trapped in the motel room with the TV off, because Cas started up in bed every time it flicked on and Sam was tired of waking him. He got it that Dean was restless, but Sam didn't really want to go out with Dean to a bar, get buzzed on watery beer and watch his brother bilk tough-looking bikers out of their probably ill-gotten cash. Somehow, even though he wasn't doing anything in the motel room but reading the same paragraph about devil seals over and over, Castiel's silent back had way more pull.

Sam sent his brother a smile that was more like a wince. "Yeah. I think I'll stick it out with Cas. It's no fun to be sick, y'know."

Dean shook his head. "No fun to be sick, huh? What would you know about it?"

Sam tried not to react to his brother's words, though they hit him like a slap in the face, with all he'd been remembering since they took this case. "I was sick a few times as a kid, Dean."

Dean squinted at him. "Huh. I don't really remember that."

Sam didn't want to argue with Dean about the past—that never got them anywhere. He just glanced out into the foggy parking lot, studying the shine of moisture on the windows of the cars. "Whatever. You go. One of us should probably stay anyway, in case someone from the cult shows up."

Dean studied Sam and then glanced past him at the partly open door, Castiel sitting in the half-darkness beyond it, and then back to Sam like he wanted to object. But in the end he just said, "Fine. Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Yeah," Sam said, and watched him walk to the car.

It didn't count as an argument—not between them. Sam hoped that Dean would find somebody to spend the night with, or at least to crash with for a few hours, because Sam didn't want to get a call from the bar at 2 a.m. to come pick up his drunk brother, hangover soon to follow. He didn't need two people to take care of right now.

Then again, taking care of Cas was more like watching Cas take care of himself, and pushing liquids on him when the angel consented to take something in. But other than that, Sam felt like his hands were tied. He wasn't even sure Cas appreciated him hovering, asking the same questions over and over.

"Sam."

The angel's voice greeted him as soon as Sam slipped back inside the room, its usual gravel tone barely more than a whisper. Sam shut the door softly behind him and stepped forward with a reassuring smile. "Hey, Cas. You okay?"

Castiel ignored the question, his blue eyes scanning the room with a careful turn of his head. "Where is Dean?" he asked.

Sam bit his lip. Cas always asked after Dean's whereabouts—every time he woke up, like clockwork. Sam never knew what to say besides "out," "gone," "at the bar," "I don't know." It was a sweet torture because Cas always just nodded as though he accepted the answer, or possibly expected as much—like he didn't care. But it didn't stop him from inquiring again the next time. Sam couldn't help wondering if Castiel wished Dean were there taking care of him instead. It hurt but maybe it was fair. He was Dean's angel, after all.

Sam took a steadying breath and turned away from Cas, brushing his hair back behind his ears as he tucked the hard chairs under the table. "He's… he needed a drink, I guess." He glanced back in time to see Castiel nod once more, his features blank. Sam wished he could read Cas better, so that he didn't have to torment himself with what that look meant.

But this wasn't supposed to be about Sam. This was about Cas. Sam exhaled slowly and then turned back to the angel, wiping uncertain hands against his jeans. "Do you need anything, Cas? Can I get you another pillow or something? For behind your back?"

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at the disheveled pillows, as if measuring the distance from his back to the headrest. "I am fine, Sam."

"Okay," Sam said, biting down his wince.

He burned to do something—anything. Cas was here doing this thing from them, for _Dean_, and he deserved to be comfortable, whatever Sam could do for him right now. He thought about telling Castiel that it made him uncomfortable just to watch the angel sitting ramrod straight, blinking and forcing his eyes open over and over, but he remembered feeling like that—being desperate to take control of his sickness, forcing himself to stay upright in the back seat of the Impala instead of leaning against the window, refusing to lie down across the seat no matter how many times Dean asked, because he wanted to be tough enough for his father, because he wanted John to believe him when he said he was better already. John Winchester had believed him. Why shouldn't he believe Castiel?

Sam took a few steps toward Cas's bed and lifted a hand as though to smooth the covers, but pulled it back before he touched anything, biting his lip as he ducked behind the fringe of his bangs. "Let me get you a pillow, Cas." Sam wasn't even sure why it mattered. He knew it shouldn't matter. Cas was regarding him strangely through the long silence, and Sam prepared to turn away, to scoot the canvas chair at Cas's bedside to the left a ways until he wouldn't bother the angel anymore. Castiel's voice stopped him before he reached for it.

"All right, Sam."

Sam blinked, lost in his own thoughts. "All right?"

Castiel looked up at him with a straight face, his gaze either patient or flat. "All right. I will take a pillow."

"Oh… oh!" Sam shook himself into action and shuffled to the other bed he'd been taking turns sharing with Dean. He returned with his own pillow and hovered unsurely for a second beside Cas, wondering if he had changed his mind. But then the angel pulled his legs up to stretch down the bed and leaned forward so that Sam could slide the pillow between him and the headboard, and Sam did, pulling Castiel's own pillow up as well to enhance the effect. When Castiel sat back against the pillows, he was still stiff as a board, and Sam had a feeling that he wasn't even leaning on the pillow at all, but at least it was there—when Cas was ready to stop holding himself up and lean on something for a while, it was there.

.x.

Castiel did not know when he had fallen asleep. He woke to an unexpected sound, drifting softly through the motel room—a low hum, rising and falling in gentle pitch, coming from somewhere on his right.

Castiel blinked against the fog in his mind, and then tipped his head to get his bearings. He was still in the bed, but had fallen onto his back, braced against the piled pillows; and at his side, Sam was slumped down in the scratchy motel armchair, his chin resting on the heel of one hand as he stared unseeingly at the page of a leather-bound tome. It was Sam who was humming. Castiel had never heard Sam hum before, and for a long moment he just listened to the sound, so breathy it was almost insubstantial but somehow soothing at the same time. The angel lay still amid the disordered sheets, weighing the urge to rise against the disorienting heaviness in his limbs. In the end he simply rolled onto his side, studying Sam through slow-blinking eyes.

"What are you doing, Sam?" he asked.

Sam had not noticed him wake up. Castiel was sure of this when the young man started in his chair, his shoulders bunching up at his unexpected voice. Wide hazel eyes stared back at Castiel through the gloom of the drawn blinds. Then Sam shook himself.

"Cas. Hey… I was just, um…" Sam glanced down at the book in his lap, as though trying to remind himself what he had been doing before his mind wandered. "It's about demon lore. I was looking for any more information on this guy, the Eater. Nothing yet, though."

Castiel gave the book in Sam's lap a cursory examination, his eyes narrowing. "No. Not that. I meant the humming."

Sam ducked his head. "Oh. That. Sorry—it's just a habit, I guess. Sometimes when I'm just, you know…" Castiel frowned in puzzlement as Sam shook his head from side to side and then attempted a smile, setting his book aside to grip the knees of his jeans. "But it drives Dean crazy, too," Sam told him, with a shrug that was somehow too loose. "Especially when he has a hangover. So… sorry. I didn't mean to bug you."

"You did not… bug me," Castiel assured him, repeating the word carefully. "It was a pleasant sound." Sam looked slightly taken aback at that, which Castiel assumed meant he'd either offended the young man or said something unusual again. Sam was less apt to point out his slips than Dean. The angel tried a different approach. "What was the song you were humming?" he asked.

Sam cleared his throat as if embarrassed. "It's, uh… it's Metallica. No Leaf Clover."

The words meant nothing to Castiel, but he nodded all the same, closing his eyes for just a moment to pull the memory of softly rising and falling tones into his mind. "It seems very peaceful," he said.

Sam laughed under his breath. "I guess the essence doesn't really come through without the drums and cymbals."

Castiel liked Sam's smile, when it was sincere. It was a hesitant expression, but somehow it captured every facet of his face, made him seem to glow in the dimmed lights. Or perhaps Castiel's fever was to blame for the luminescence. Either way, the angel stilled for a moment to appreciate his companion's expression, more heartfelt but a reflection of the same sympathetic smile that had found him every time he'd opened his eyes. Castiel's gaze strayed to the dark circles like old bruises that lay sallow on Sam's face, and past him to the other bed, unslept in since Dean had last gone out. And he wondered again why it was that Sam alone had been burdened with staying with him.

"Where is Dean?" Castiel asked.

He wasn't prepared for how swiftly Sam's face would fall.

For a long moment, Sam stared down into his lap without speaking, his fingers clenched into a weave across his bent knee. At last he looked up at Castiel with a pinched expression, all traces of the tentative smile gone from his face.

"Cas, do you… d'you wish Dean was here instead of me?" Sam asked softly, his eyes sincere but unreadable as he exchanged stares with the angel. Castiel frowned and Sam brushed a hand through his long hair. "Because I can get him for you. He's not good at this—you know, waiting and… but I'll get him if you want me to. God knows he owes you for this," Sam finished. Then he winced, an apologetic curve touching his lips. "I mean—sorry."

Castiel rolled up onto one elbow and tipped his head, considering Sam from a different angle. "Why would I wish for Dean to be here?" he asked.

Sam gave a small shrug. "Because you did this for him." The young man risked a glance up to meet Castiel's gaze, and in the moment of connection before Sam looked away again Castiel caught flashes of so many things in his eyes—depression and misery and resignation and acceptance, the long-drawn sigh at the end of these other three. Sam shook his head. "Making yourself sick and just… putting yourself through all this. You did all this for him, and… he's not even here."

Dean's absence was not unexpected. Nor was his callousness. But Castiel didn't find that worth addressing. There was only one part of Sam's reasoning that the angel really wanted to respond to, because it was hard to understand sometimes how Sam made up his mind about things and Castiel did not wish to be misunderstood—not about this. Not by Sam. A few lines creased the angel's forehead.

"I did not do this for Dean," Castiel told him. "I did this for you, Sam."

Sam's head snapped up, his eyes wide. For a minute, he did nothing except stare back at Castiel, his gaze roving over the angel's face, and Castiel studied his shifting expressions in return—the uncertainty, the cautious hope, the desperation to understand if he could believe these words or not. Then Sam's doubt got the better of him, and he bit his bottom lip, giving an aborted shake of his head.

"No, I—I get it, Cas. And it's not that I don't appreciate it—so much, I swear. But Dean can be…" Sam looked down, breaking eye contact with Castiel as he dug his fingernails into the fabric of his dark jeans. "He guilted you into it."

Castiel let himself breathe so that he could exhale softly, not even a sigh. "Yes," the angel agreed. Then Sam's wide, sad hazel eyes rose to meet Castiel's blue, and he pushed on, holding himself steady on his elbow. "But he was only able to do that because I could not face the alternative."

Sam blinked. "The alternative?"

Castiel lifted his free hand and reached out to touch Sam's face, the tips of his fingers just ghosting over his cheekbone. "I did not want you to suffer."

Sam closed his eyes. For a moment that stretched into eternity, he said nothing, so still beneath Castiel's hand that the angel wondered if he was holding his breath. Castiel brushed a flickering line down Sam's cheek and marveled at how cool the young man felt, compared to his own fevered skin; let the pad of his thumb drift to rest at the corner of Sam's mouth, and wished without thought that he were still smiling. Then Sam let out a long, slow breath and sank down in his chair, and Castiel's hand followed him, the long, pale fingers cupping his jaw.

"Thank you," Sam said, his voice so raw that it was almost a whisper. "Thanks, Cas. I… I don't think I could have done it. Not for so long."

Sam pressed his lips together as if to stop himself from going on, revealing the memories that had creased his brow. Another time, Castiel would ask about them, do what he could to soothe them and ease the burden that came with carrying them in silence. But not now. For now, Castiel just grazed his fingers along the line of Sam's cheek once more and then withdrew his hand, rolling onto his back amid the pillows.

"You are welcome, Sam."

Castiel could feel the fever building in his head again, a dull pounding behind his temples. It made it difficult to concentrate. But he was still aware enough to meet Sam's eyes as the young man leaned over his bed, those eternally sympathetic eyes accompanied this time by a cautious hand on his shoulder.

"Anything I can do for you, Cas?"

_Anything_ was the strongest word there—Castiel could feel that one down in his bones. Somehow he knew that Sam would do it, anything he could. But he only had one request.

Castiel breathed out into the heavy, warm air. "Just stay with me, Sam," he said, meeting the younger man's eyes. "I would like it if you were here with me."

Sam laughed under his breath. Castiel could not tell what kind of a laugh it was, exactly. But Sam was smiling softly again, and that was what Castiel wanted most.

"Sure, Cas. I'll stay with you. Go back to sleep, all right? I'll be here when you wake up."

Castiel fell asleep with the cool pressure of Sam's hand on his shoulder.

.x.

_Six months from that night, after everything is long over, Castiel will appear in the middle of a darkened hotel room and take the chair next to Sam's sickbed. Sam will turn over and blink bleary eyes at the angel as another pillow is propped between him and the headboard, as the blankets are tucked up to his chin, as a cool hand soothes his forehead._

_After Castiel has settled in at his side, just before his heavy eyes slip closed again for the night, Sam will say, "You don't have to stay, Cas."_

_Castiel will say, "You stayed for me."_


End file.
